The village of Ephyra had never been this alive.
For years, laughter had been rare, drowned beneath the roars of the monster that haunted the hills. But tonight, light poured from every home, torches flickered like stars reborn, and people gathered in the square to chant one name — "Hercules! Hercules! Hercules!"
At the center of it all, the man himself sat on a makeshift throne — really just a barrel draped with a red cloth — awkward, slightly overwhelmed, and very much out of place.
Children ran around him, holding wooden sticks like swords, pretending to slay invisible beasts. Women carried baskets of fruit and bread to lay before him. Men clapped his shoulders, voices booming with ale and gratitude.
"Never thought I'd live to see that demon fall!" one man shouted.
"Four arms or forty, Hercules would've cut them all!" laughed another.
Hercules smiled — or tried to. The truth was, he felt hollow. His muscles ached from battle, but his heart felt heavier still. The joy in their eyes should have warmed him. Yet all he could think about was the man he used to be — the thief, the coward, the liar who'd steal from these very people without a second thought.
Now they called him hero.
"Eat, great one!" an old woman said, pushing a tray toward him. "Bread, roasted fowl, figs, wine! You've earned it!"
He hesitated, then tore off a piece of warm bread. The smell of yeast and woodfire filled his nose — soft, golden crust giving way to warmth that almost melted in his mouth.
It had been so long since he'd eaten without guilt. The roast turkey beside it glistened with honey glaze. His stomach growled before he could resist, and he laughed quietly at himself. Maybe, for tonight, he could let go.
Selina, standing across the square, caught his gaze and smiled. Her hair glowed like copper in the torchlight, her hands stained with berry juice from helping prepare the feast. She looked like someone who belonged here — human, kind, unbroken.
"You could at least pretend to enjoy the praise," she teased, walking over with a jug of wine.
"I'm trying," Hercules muttered. "But they keep calling me 'great one.' Makes me sound like a goat."
Selina laughed, pouring him a cup. "A heroic goat, maybe."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "I'm no hero."
"You say that," she replied, leaning close enough that her voice dropped, "but you saved their lives. Maybe being a hero isn't about being perfect. Maybe it's about showing up when no one else will."
Her words hit him harder than he expected. He looked at her — really looked — and felt something shift. Something small, fragile. Dangerous.
⸻
As the night deepened, music filled the square. Fiddles and drums clattered, and people began to dance. Even the old sword trainer, Eirenos, stood by a fire pit, grumbling with a mug in hand.
"Never seen you fight like that, Hercules," Eirenos said when the younger man approached. "Your stance was… different."
"Different?" Hercules asked, feigning ignorance.
Eirenos squinted. "You used to fight like the earth itself feared you. Now you fight like you're afraid of it."
Hercules laughed it off. "Maybe I've learned to respect the ground."
But the old man didn't smile. His eyes lingered on Hercules's face — searching, curious, uncertain — before he finally nodded and turned back to his drink.
⸻
Later, when the fire had burned low and most of the villagers had fallen asleep around it, Hercules wandered off to the outskirts of the village. He carried a small loaf of bread, tearing bits off absently as he walked beneath the moon.
The silence was loud.
Too loud.
He thought about the way the villagers had looked at him — like he was a savior. He thought about Selina's smile, Eirenos's suspicion, and his own reflection earlier in the river — the face of a man who wasn't supposed to be alive.
If they knew who I really was, he thought, would they still cheer? Would she still smile?
A part of him wanted to run.
Another part whispered: Stay. Do some good while you can.
He stopped near the broken fence of an abandoned farm. There, he found a young boy trying to lift a fallen beam. Without a word, Hercules crouched and raised it with one hand, setting it back in place. The boy's eyes widened.
"Thank you, sir!"
Hercules smiled faintly. "Call me… Herc."
He spent the rest of the night helping — fixing fences, carrying barrels, lighting fires for the elderly. Small things, meaningless perhaps to the gods, but deeply meaningful to those who lived by mortal sweat and fear.
Each act of kindness felt like a stone lifted from his chest.
Each grateful smile reminded him of who he could be.
⸻
By dawn, the celebration had dwindled to tired laughter and quiet gratitude. Selina found him sitting on a low wall, hands covered in soot from fixing a chimney.
"You didn't have to do all this," she said softly.
"I know," Hercules replied. "But I wanted to. Feels… right."
Selina tilted her head. "You're strange, you know that?"
"I've been told worse."
They both laughed, but when their laughter faded, a strange silence lingered between them — warm, uncertain, hopeful.
Selina looked at him for a long moment before whispering, "Who are you really, Hercules?"
His heart froze.
He forced a smile. "Just… someone trying to do better."
For a moment, she seemed like she'd press further, but then she only nodded, her eyes soft. "Then keep doing it. The world needs more 'someones' like that."
⸻
Far beyond the hills, in a sky of burning clouds, something stirred.
A dark ripple spread across the heavens — faint, unseen by mortal eyes. And deep within the void of the underworld, a shadow opened one of its many eyes.
"So…" the voice hissed.
"The fallen one still walks the earth."
The god's voice was like thunder pressed through smoke.
The same one who had sent the beast to destroy the mortals below.
He leaned forward in his abyssal throne, eyes narrowing. "Impossible. I killed him myself."
A low growl echoed in the dark, and the air trembled.
"Then who wears his face?"
⸻
The next morning, Hercules woke to the sound of laughter and a new dawn. The villagers were already building again, full of hope. For the first time in years, there was peace. He stood at the edge of the village, watching the sunlight creep across the roofs.
Maybe this is what redemption looks like, he thought.
But somewhere deep inside him, beneath the warmth and joy, a single question lingered like a whisper in the wind:
How long before they find out who I truly am?